


once a barefoot boy

by jaqhad (kyrilu)



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Boot Worship, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24334537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/jaqhad
Summary: Written for the prompt:Cassian needs his boots polished and Bodhi volunteers. He gets a little too into it.
Relationships: Cassian Andor/Bodhi Rook
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37
Collections: Rogue One Kinkmeme Collection





	once a barefoot boy

**Author's Note:**

> Three years too late, but [this prompt](https://rogueonekink.dreamwidth.org/1084.html?thread=559164#cmt559164) caught my eye and I felt inspired.

There’s nothing better than a good pair of boots. As a boy growing up on Jedha, Bodhi had occasionally offered bootblacking services to passing pilgrims - a fastidious, efficient polish while he asked the travelers about their homeworlds and their journeys. After he finished, his customers would flick a credit chip or two his way, which he saved up to purchase parts for his airspeeder, or pastries from the market stalls, or little gifts for his mother.

Bodhi had always envied the spacers’ boots: sturdy leather or synthetic hide, sleek or well-worn, accustomed to having tread many paths and many places. When he enlisted, it was one of his small prides: the standard-issue positive gravity pressure boots, which kept him grounded on the decks of ships and the varying terrains on his cargo routes.

Of course it was small-minded of him -- of course it was naive -- but it’s still _his_. In his downtime between deliveries, Bodhi takes care to keep his boots in the best condition he can. 

Even in the Rebel Alliance, it’s a habit that he can’t quite shake. One evening, Cassian finds Bodhi bent over his boots in his quarters -- worrying over scuff marks with a length of cloth -- sock-clad and intent on the shoes in front of him.

“Bodhi, Meorti is asking if--” Cassian stops. “You’re cleaning your boots? _”_

Bodhi startles, looks up. “Ah, sorry. We made plans to work on the _Republic_ 's shield generator tonight. I’ll be there soon.” Bodhi’s been picking up some mechanic responsibilities in the Alliance -- it can be absorbing, interesting work, keeping his hands busy and making himself useful.

Cassian nods. “I saw her in the hangar and she told me to pass along the word.” 

He lingers by the doorway, then says, amusement coloring his voice, “You know, we rebels aren’t the Empire. We don’t subject ourselves to routine uniform inspection.” 

“I suppose I’m still used to this,” Bodhi says, as he resumes scrubbing his boots. “And,” he adds, wryly, “I can tell.” He motions toward Cassian’s own boots, dark combat boots that have obviously been through tough times. It’s not falling apart or covered with holes, but there are marks on the toe cap.

“You caught me,” Cassian says. “I’ll make sure to issue myself a demerit. Princess Organa will have to take back my medal for the disgraceful state of my boots.”

“Very disgraceful,” Bodhi says, faux-seriously and he feels something warm heat in his chest when Cassian barks out a short laugh. And it’s that feeling that makes him say, “I can -- I can black your boots for you right now, if you’d like. Might as well, while I’m at it.” 

A second too late, Bodhi wonders if that’s an odd thing to offer. He’s no longer one of the shoe shining kids on Jedha; he’s a member of the Rebel Alliance, a pilot who’d helped deliver the Death Star plans. Cassian is technically _Captain_ Andor, a commanding officer, and even though this isn’t the Empire, the significance of rank has been drilled in him since flight academy, and it’s not right to overstep--

But Cassian shrugs -- “It wouldn’t hurt for these to be shining for the next council meeting,” and a heartbeat, then another, and Bodhi’s tugging him toward his cot in the room, having Cassian sit down so he’s at the right angle for Bodhi when he drops to his knees before him. 

Cassian lets out a soft surprised noise, as if he didn’t expect Bodhi to start right then and there. Harsh exhaled tenseness -- his legs shifting a slight increment -- the stretched plain of the cot creaking underneath him. 

Methodical, careful, Bodhi pulls up the tucked cuffs of Cassian’s trousers, rolling them up and out of the way. Then, undoing the boot laces, right and left, twisting out the neat knots, his fingers untwining. He leaves the laces splayed on the ground like wayward ribbons.

They’re quality boots, Cassian’s boots, durasteel-toed and hardy. They’re sure to last years, ages, even if they’re looking a bit dull at the moment. Which is the point of Bodhi’s current task at hand, and he makes himself focus on lathing Cassian’s boots with the all-purpose polish he’d nabbed from the base hangar.

The polish is a layer of shimmering clear white, and it smells acute and chemical. Bodhi applies it around the boots’ rugged surfaces with the rub of his thumbs and the stroke of his palms, from boot shaft to curved heel edge to toe tip. Next, he’s tracing patterns with a cloth, the leather smooth and flexible, giving way to every movement. 

“You’re pretty good at this.” Cassian’s voice, rough and raspy, cuts into the abrupt silence that had fallen upon them.

“It’s hardly a specialized skill,” Bodhi murmurs, peering upward at Cassian through his eyelashes. And there it is again, that full body sigh, the muscles of Cassian’s body rippling and straining -- and here, his boot-clad ankle cradled in Bodhi’s hands tipping up. “I guess it’s close enough.” 

“I see,” Cassian says, his throat bobbing. “It’s always important to practice our skills. But I think this should be enough. I appreciate this, truly, but I know you have other things to do, and you’re not a service droid. You should… stand up.” 

“No,” Bodhi says. “It’s alright. I’m not done yet. I’m okay like this.”

And Cassian looks down at him, and he says, with visible effort, “Rook. Please don’t make me do something we’ll both regret. We’re friends. Comrades. _Get up_.” 

“--Don’t have to,” Bodhi says, his voice a clipped mumble. “You don’t have to regret anything. Let me, Captain, just -- let me.” He doesn’t know what he’s doing; he _doesn’t_ ; but he’s still on his knees, and his heart is surging like a storm, and Cassian’s gleaming boot is cupped between his palms like an offering, like the alms of Jedha’s pilgrims presented to priests and prophets, and what can he do except accept it? He bends down deeper, pressing his mouth on the boot tip, the scruff of his beard brushing the leather as he forms the shape of a kiss. 

When he looks up at Cassian again, the other man is staring, his lips parted, his eyes darkened. He breathes out Bodhi’s name, and he says, “You… you have no idea how you look like right now. You can stop this. Let me walk away, and we can pretend this never happened.”

There’s a part of Bodhi that will always want to be _crushed._ Sometimes he wonders if this is an artifact of his time spent with Bor Gullet, that thing worming around his shoulders, his arms, his mind, tearing away at his identity until he’s a stammering fearful mess. Or maybe it was the Empire, with its iron fist and its destructive reach, this well-organized monster that taught him to follow orders and ask no questions, blowing up his home in a beam of terrible light and toppling temples. Or maybe this is a flaw that he’s always had, since he was a boy who could not be trusted with knives.

It doesn't matter. He wants this. He wants this. And, in answer, he raises his head, and he grips Cassian’s thighs, and he is not surprised that when he kisses again, he finds twitching stiff warmth.

Bodhi pulls away and waits. Cassian nods, shakily. The cot creaks again as Cassian leans back and fumbles, his fingers undoing his belt and pulling down his zip. Then he reaches for Bodhi’s hair.

“Do it,” Cassian says. “In your mouth, Bodhi. Come on.” 

Bodhi’s breath stutters in, out, uneven, and he takes it, his mouth fitting around Cassian’s cock. Cassian’s hips jerk--his legs tremble--and it’s all a wet, gasping mess, spittle spilling from Bodhi’s mouth as his tongue swirls and sucks; pre-come leaking, sharp and sudden and viscid; and Cassian’s hand pulling his hair and guiding him back and forth, sending minor shocks of pain thrilling through him.

As Cassian’s cock swells, Bodhi involuntarily feels himself pulling back, but Cassian stops him once Bodhi’s paused over the tip. “Stay right there." He touches Bodhi’s upper lip with his thumb. “Open a little wider. Keep breathing.” Then, the light pressure of his fingers on Bodhi’s throat, and Cassian lets out a shivering groan, coming, spurting, _filling_.

“Swallow,” Cassian says, drawing back. And tears pricking his eyes -- seed and spit dribbling down his chin in trailing strands -- Bodhi does. 

Bodhi wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He can’t see Cassian’s face for a second, his face inclined away. Finally, Cassian turns, his breath no longer gasping. “Holy mother of moons. Do you want me to--?” 

Bodhi shakes his head. “No, I’ll -- deal with it. Thank you for letting me…black your boots.” 

“Come up here,” Cassian says, gesturing for Bodhi to take a seat beside him on the cot. Bodhi blinks, but he rises, jerky, settling next to him. 

“I don’t think I should have done that,” Cassian says, quietly, as Bodhi’s head drops on his shoulders, as Cassian’s hand seeks out his hair again, but more gentler this time. “I should've known better.” 

“No regrets,” Bodhi reminds him, and Cassian lets out a quiet snort. “I was good, wasn’t I?” 

“You were.” 

In response, Bodhi’s eyelids flutter, and he sighs, feeling like a satisfied tooka in the sun. They sit like that, until Cassian reminds him of Meorti’s message, and Bodhi flushes and darts into ‘fresher for a quick sonic shower. His boots laced up and glinting, the room reeking of polish, Cassian leaves him with a kiss on the forehead and the strange yearning hope for a next time. 


End file.
